


A Cream Tea

by Dryad



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 08:16:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2805767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There is something in the nature of tea that leads us into a world of quiet contemplation of life.” <br/>~ Lin Yutang</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cream Tea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rimedio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rimedio/gifts).



> Merry Yule, Rimedio!

Lachlan liked having his tea at Archibald's. Actually, he loved having the cream tea there, it reminded him of going to the Willow Tea Rooms with his Gran. She was long dead, now, and he no longer lived in Glasgow, which was fine. More than fine, even though he missed his family. London was…fine. It was all fine. He was gradually getting to know people at work, which was good, he supposed. People were supposed to do that.

He plucked a raisin scone from the tower, split it, spread a good layer of clotted cream on both halves. He shouldn't, really, but why not? He needed the treat after the past few weeks. Besides, cream teas at Archibald's were worth the few pence it cost. Taking his first bite, eyes closed in pleasure at the richness on his tongue, he thought to himself that if he ever saved enough money, someday he would return to Glasgow and open a wee tea shop on Renfrew Street. That way he could catch all the tourists visiting the School of Art. Or maybe he'd move to Edinburgh, take up a shop on the Royal Mile. He would have cream teas and all his favorites; butteries from Aberdeen, Black bun, tablet from…well, tablet. 

"Lachlan? Lachlan MacNeil?"

The voice was posh, English, and familiar. Lachlan hastily wiped his mouth, brushed any stray crumbs off of his clothing, and stood up, turning to face his questioner. "Hello, Peter."

Peter Guillam grinned and held out his hand. "It _is_ you! How are you? Do you mind if I join you?" he asked, pulling on the back of the other chair at the small table as a waitress approached. "Fancy meeting you here - one coffee, please, black - what are you doing in London?"

Lachlan stared at him, quite unable to believe what was happening. He slowly sat down again. A few seconds of silence passed, then he shook himself with a start and began to talk. "Oh, um, I work at the British Museum. Cataloging, mostly. What about yourself?"

"Just a small time government clerk, nothing special."

Oh, nothing _special_. Rather the contrary, thought Lachlan. Peter was absolutely gorgeous in his distinguished, dark grey suit. It brought out the brassiness in his hair a bit, but that only made it stand out against the suit and the paleness of his skin. The suit was quality and showed off his slim figure admirably, nothing off the rack like Lachlan's own. "Please help yourself to a cake."

"Thank you, I believe I will. I'm starved, haven't had time for anything but a cup of tea today."

Glancing back down at his own plate, Lachlan tried to think of something to say. One couldn't be terrified of one's crush all the time, even if it had been years since they had known one another. And Cambridge, though oddly accepting of homosexual relationships, was not the place where he would ever have approached Peter. No, he had watched from afar. And rightly so, it would seem. Besides, Peter wasn't queer. A dandy, but not queer. Right now he needed something that would get Peter to stay for a bit, instead of leaving as soon as he was finished with his tiny sandwich. Work was good, work was safe. "Did you get a chance to see the Tutankhamun exhibit?"

"My god, yes. It was glorious, absolutely _glorious_ ," answered Peter, taking his coffee from the waitress with a welcoming smile. "Did you have a lot to do with it?"

"You could say. Everything comes in boxes, thousands of items great and small, each needing a number and a home and tracking from room to room, from shelf to exhibit. The goal is to lose nothing, nothing at all. I nearly had a heart attack when an entire crate of _ushabtis_ went missing."

"Funerary statuettes, right?"

"Correct," said Lachlan, warming a bit to his subject. "Items placed to help the dead with work - " oh god that was a hideously awkward thing to say. " - minions. Minions to do the labor for the deceased, in the Afterlife."

Peter took two tiny cucumber sandwiches, bit one in half. He chewed, swallowed, said, "Minions, I'm a big fan of minions."

"God yes, where would we be without them? I'm lucky enough to share a secretary with the rest of the office, though I daresay she is a dragon. I swear I see steam coming out of her ears when she decides I've done something wrong."

"I know exactly what you mean. We have ladies, and god help you should you cross them."

They shared a brief glance before Lachlan forced himself to look away. He took a sip of tea and another bite of scone. He could barely taste the flavour of it. 

"So," said Peter, putting a spoonful of sugar into his coffee. His gaze flicked to Lachlan's face before he looked back down. "I have to confess, I didn't entirely run into you by chance."

"Oh?"

"I saw you, a few weeks ago. You were attending a film at Clark's," Peter sat back in his chair, crossing his legs. He sipped from his cup, staring at Lachlan all the while, practically daring him to disagree.

Oh _Christ_. The film, French, banned. Lachlan pasted on a smile he was sure looked about as genuine as a packet of Bird's Instant Custard. "You must be mistaken, I don't attend the cinema."

"No, no, it was you," insisted Peter, leaning forward a little. "You weren't exactly invisible at Cambridge."

 _What??_ "What do you mean, invisible?" because he had to know.

Peter shrugged. "Oh, it's not important. You were just very different from everyone else."

Lachlan frowned, but said nothing more.

"I was in a cab at the light, and I saw you come out of Clark's. You had on a Scandinavian sweater in navy, tan trousers and a mackintosh, and you ran across the street because you didn't have an umbrella. I rolled down my window and called to you, but you didn't hear me," said Peter earnestly. "I have to admit I kept going back there to see if I could find you."

Lachlan felt his cheeks heat and he had to look away. He hadn't done anything wrong. He was an adult, for god's sake. "Did we have a class together? I don't remember," he lied. No, they hadn't had a class together, but Leila had been friends with Richard, and Richard had been friendly with Vanessa, and Vanessa had been dating Edmund Salisbury, who roomed with Peter. Lord Salisbury, now.

"We had mutual friends in Leila Robertson? Yes? See, you _do_ remember!" 

Peter grinned again, so easily, so prettily, and Lachlan felt like the oldest man in the world. They were the same age, near enough, but Peter had clearly gone places Lachlan could never even dream of. Not for the first time, he wondered where Peter had come from, what his family was like. Lachlan had won his place at Cambridge through hard work and sacrifice, he wasn't sure Peter could say the same. Every now and then, though, he had seen hints of another Peter come through, a darkness. There had been that one time at that pub, hell if he could remember what it had been called, when that bloke had made unwelcome moves on some girl foolishly traveling by herself. Peter had laid him out with a single punch, following with a kick to his backside before stepping back, breathing hard. He'd stood there, looking down at the bloke and straightening his camel overcoat. The expression on his face…Lachlan had decided there and then he never wanted to be on Peter's wrong side. 

Thing was, Lachlan hadn't even been part of Peter's group then, he had just been enjoying his pint after a long day. The letter about Donald had been disheartening, and Andrew's illness hadn't borne thinking about. Mum had wanted him to come home for the funeral, and god, he hadn't wanted to go. Not because of Andrew, but because Jack would try to get him alone, to - .

No, it still didn't bear thinking about, not even after all these years. Still.

"You look a million miles away."

Lachlan shook his head. "Sorry, sorry. Memories about home, you know how it is."

Peter nodded. "I do. Don't think I haven't noticed that you haven't answered my question."

"Oh," Lachlan faked a laugh. "I remember Leila. She was friendly with Edmund, right?"

"Yes, yes, she was," murmured Peter. He contemplated the coffee remaining in his cup, then took a scone and buttered it. "You haven't even asked me why I wanted to get in touch with you, y'know."

"Um, so, why did you want to talk to me?"

"I…wanted to invite you to a do I'm having. Nothing grand, just a housewarming at my new flat. Will you come?"

Lachlan blinked. A housewarming? At Peter's? And all because Peter had seen him leaving Clark's? Even as he was speaking them, the words that came out of his mouth shocked him to the core. "Yes, alright, I'd love to."

"Excellent!"

Peter checked his watch, then pulled his wallet out of his jacket pocket, along with a small biro. "I have a meeting at six that I can't miss. My boss is giving a talk on modes of efficiency for travel overseas, y'know, who has the best rates, time of the year, whether or not one should drive. I can't recommend it in Cairo. Mayhem, absolute mayhem," he said, writing down his address on the card. "Please do come, Lachlan."

"Of course I shall," Lachlan got to his feet as well, rubbing his hands on his trousers to rid them of any moisture. True to form, for Peter had ever been a gentleman, he held out his hand and Lachlan gladly shook it. He tucked the card away in his own wallet. "Goodbye."

"Ta-ra," called Peter over his shoulder as he left.

Given that he was seated by the corner window, Lachlan watched him stride down the street, all business and no joy. Not a few women eyed him as he passed them by, and a couple of tough boys looked him over and decided to find another mark instead. Wise, lads, wise. His stomach rumbled, so he ate one of the tiny sandwiches, tinned salmon on brown bread with grainy mustards. Nothing he couldn't make at home, of course, but it was always nice when someone else made it for you.

Which reminded him; should he bring a gift? Well, it was a housewarming, a bottle of whisky wouldn't go amiss. Or would that be too forward? He didn't know, he'd never been to a housewarming party before. Books were too impertinent…besides, they weren't at Cambridge anymore, he couldn't guess what Peter would like based on what he had been reading at university. No…housewarming…ah, of course! A plant. Something that could suffer a bit of neglect, yes, that was it.

"Can I get anything else for you, sir?"

Lachlan shook his head at the waitress. "No thank you, I'll take the bill, please," He had three days to think about it. Perhaps a plant and a home decorating magazine? Oh, he would stop by Habitat and get the latest Terence Contran catalog, surely Peter would appreciate that. Decision made, he ate the last few sandwiches and one of the remaining tiny cakes. Putting his scone back together, he wrapped it in his paper serviette and tucked it into his pocket. It would be brilliant for his breakfast instead of plain toast.

Returning to his drab little flat that consisted of two rooms and a shared toilet, Lachlan hung up his jacket, put the scone in the bread bin with the remainder of Monday's loaf. Dinner tonight would be more tinned pink salmon, and canned peas with a slice of bread and margarine, a dram of Bruichladdich single malt for afters.

Or maybe he would start with the whisky. Get his belly warm from the shock it had received. An hour later, long past the time he should have been in bed, reading, Lachlan was throwing clothing from the wardrobe onto his single bed. He didn't have anything as fancy or modern as Peter's suit, but what he did have was clean and serviceable and good Christ he _had_ to save his money for home, instead of on himself. He sat down on the bed hard enough to make the springs protest. Lachlan had asked him, so he would go, instead of calling and sending his apologies. It was going to be awful, in more ways than one. 

The days before Peter's party passed slow, then sped up like a movie special effect. It seemed as though in the space of the blink of an eye Lachlan was knocking on the door of the first floor flat. A stranger opened the door and beckoned him in. There was loud music playing, heavy with guitars and drums, and the flat was filled with men and women talking and laughing and drinking and smoking. Lachlan felt quite dumpy in his seal brown suit five years out of fashion. He had tried to spiff it up with a darker brown shirt and a maroon tie, even though it looked all wrong in the mirror. At least the bottle of wine he had brought wouldn't go to waste. He made his way to the kitchen, which turned out to be at the very back of the flat overlooking a common green. Holding the bottle above his head so it wouldn't get knocked to the floor, he forced his way between people until he was closer to the refrigerator. "Excuse me!" he called, trying hard not to step on toes.

"More wine!" someone shouted, and a ragged cheer sounded from the crowd.

A man far younger than Peter or himself popped up from the floor, where he had been doing god knew what, reaching for the bottle. "Thank goodness, we're almost out! Is it red or white?"

"Red," Lachlan called back. He stretched up and out over a blonde woman's head, the woman ducking and giggling, until the young man could grab the bottle. "Where's Peter?"

A pretty redhead (dyed) waved her cigarette to get his attention. Coughing as she exhaled a long stream of smoke, she rasped, "Try the lounge. He was there a little while ago."

Lachlan nodded his thanks, managed to turn and snake his way back out of the kitchen. The hallway leading towards the front door was even more jammed, now that yet more people had arrived. Fighting the incomers, Lachlan struggled to peek into open doors; one bedroom, another bedroom, a closed door that must lead to a toilet, another door that led to ah, there. Peter's merry laugh led Lachlan straight to him. He was, of course, surrounded by sycophants. He sat, perched on the edge of an olive three seater sofa, holding a cigarette in one hand, leaning on the back of the sofa with the other. The women sitting next to him, their long hair loose in the current fashion. The brunette was…bright…in stark white. Lachlan mildly disapproved of her dress, the skirt so short it practically showed the color of her pants. He supposed he ought to take note in case anyone mentioned it later. It was fantastically easy to fall out of the habit of noticing fashion, now that he was no longer where it mattered. 

He was still standing in the doorway, feeling foolish over the magazine he was holding. He should never have brought it, should never have come. He was as out of place here as he was at home. Look at all of these people, perfectly at their ease. Just as he was about to turn around and head home, Peter caught sight of him.

"Lachlan!" Peter jumped to his feet, stepped over the legs of various guests who were seated on the floor to reach Lachlan. He slung a friendly arm around Lachlan's shoulders, turned to address his audience. "Everyone! Listen! This is my friend Lachlan MacNeil, and I want you all to welcome him with open arms," Peter swung back to Lachlan, ignoring the murmured greetings. "I'm ever so glad you came, it wouldn't have been the same without you. Now, let me get you a drink."

"I brought this for you," said Lachlan, holding up the catalog. "I thought it might be suitable, but I see you've already got some furniture in."

Peter snatched the catalog out of Lachlan's hands. "Don't be ridiculous, it's perfect!"

Lachlan wasn't sure if Peter was genuinely please or hamming it up. Either way, he wasn't mocking Lachlan in front of all these strangers, and that was no bad thing.

"You still like whisky? I have whisky, beer of course, and there might even be wine left," Peter stopped, held up one hand. "Wait, you're not one of those teetotalers, are you? Well, it doesn't matter, I've got tea as well, and could scare up some warm milk or even coffee if you're prefer that."

Taken aback by the offers, Lachlan blinked at Peter, then stuttered out "Whisky would be fine."

"Excellent! Come on, it's actually stashed in my bedroom."

As it turned out, Peter's bedroom was the larger of the two, and his bed - what little of it could be seen underneath the pile of coats and gloves and hats - was a classic four poster in mahogany. Very old fashioned, he would have expected something far more modern. 

Something out of a Terence Conran catalog, actually.

The rest of the furniture was equally old fashioned, wooden dresser with mirror, a hair brush and related accoutrements in plain sight on top of it, a wardrobe, a side table with a cheap metal lamp and alarm clock. Peter partly closed the door, a dressing gown in Royal Stewart and a plush white towel hanging on a hook attached to the back of it. Opening the wardrobe, he ruffled amongst the shoes, eventually producing a bottle of GlenDronach the color of dark honey. "Ah, just the thing, don't you think?"

Lachlan was not about to turn him down. 

Peter looked around the room, then searched the top of the dresser. "Blast, I only have the one glass - "

"We can share, if you don't mind," said Lachlan with a little thrill at his own daring. He was alone in a room with Peter Guillam, a raucous party outside the door, one which Peter was happily ignoring in favor of having a private drink with Lachlan. He accepted the glass that Peter had hastily wiped out with the towel, inhaled the earthy, peaty scent of the whisky as Peter poured. "Slainte."

Closing his eyes at the flavour of lemon and smoke and apple. Gorgeous. 

"Is it any good?"

"Delicious," replied Lachlan, opening his eyes to find Peter staring at him, ever so slightly flushed. He held out the glass. "Try it."

Peter sipped, looked at the glass, sipped again. "You're right, it's stunning. Picked it on a whim."

Now that, that was something Lachlan truly doubted. If that were the case, Peter wouldn't be hiding it in his closet. "Your flat is nice, really great."

"It'll be better once it's a little more quiet."

Maybe. Lachlan had always enjoyed parties at home, lots of people, more drink, even more food. Mum had been insane with worry before hand, happy and the life of the party afterwards. 

"Another?" asked Peter, offering the now full again glass.

"Sure," Lachlan took his time. This was not whisky to be taken as a single shot. He sat down on the bed and crossed his legs.

"So…I have to admit - "

The door opened suddenly, nearly bashing into Peter, who swiftly stepped aside. The redhead from the kitchen stumbled in, nearly tripping over her own chunky heeled black boots. 

"Oh god, sorry, sorry," she said, glancing between Peter and Lachlan. She headed towards the bed to toss jackets and coats from one side to the other. "Just need to find my purse, y'know? We're going to run out to the chippie, you want some?"

Peter blinked rapidly, shook his head. "No, thanks."

"We're getting extra if you change your mind," she said, slinging her purse over her shoulder. "Back in a little bit."

Lachlan noted the flash of Peter's temper when he closed the door behind the woman, shutting it a little more forcefully than was warranted. "I seem to recall you eating plenty of chips, back in the day."

"That was then," said Peter, leaning against the door. He grabbed the bottle of GlenDronach and took a healthy swallow, set the bottle back on the dresser. "Times have changed."

"They have indeed," answered Lachlan, wondering once again just what the hell he was doing here and what exactly Peter wanted from him. Lachlan knew he was not the most clever of men, but even he could tell that there was something else going besides a party. "I get the feeling you wanted something from me?"

"Ah…um. Yes…um. I don't actually know how to broach this…"

"You never had any problem being bold before."

Peter chuckled, looked down at his feet, then at Lachlan through his eyelashes. Good god, the man was still devastatingly handsome. Lachlan felt a little trickle of anxiety in his belly. Maybe this was all a ruse? To make him look the idiot? It had happened plenty of times, starting in nursery and all the way up through university. But he and Peter had never been close, there was not reason to think he would invite him to his own home just to play him for a fool. 

Right?

Throwing wisdom to the wind, Lachlan tossed back the remainder of the GlenDronach in the glass, somehow managed not to splutter from the burn in his throat after he swallowed. Nonetheless his eyes did water, and not because he was terrified, absolutely not.

"Let me top you up," said Peter, taking the bottle and pouring before Lachlan had a chance to say no. Well, it _would_ be impolite to not accept.

Waiting for Peter to say what he had to say, Lachlan sat and sipped his whisky far too quickly. It was only when Peter refilled the glass that he realized he was halfway drunk. In for a penny, in for a pound. 

"Okay," said Peter. He swigged another mouthful from the now one-quarter empty bottle. "I really hope you, um. If you don't like what I have to say, please just leave quietly. Please don't make a scene."

Lachlan frowned, shook his head even though it felt like his brain was moving at a completely different speed inside his skull. "Of course not. What kind of man do you think I am? We're mates."

"I hope so. I…I was wondering if you'd care to go to dinner with me? Later this week, perhaps?"

Blinking slowly, Lachlan studied the man before him. "Are we meeting up with Richard and Vanessa and everyone? I'm not so sure about that…haven't kept in touch, y'see."

"No! No, no. Just you and me. I know a little Indian place. You have to bring your own wine or beer, but the menu is fantastic. My shout."

Lachlan was fairly sure he had not been drugged. Because otherwise this had to be a dream. A very pleasant one, admittedly. Still, though. This sounded awfully suspiciously like - . But it was ridiculous, such a thought. Blokes went out to dinner all the time, though usually there was a club or a pub or a game, something that would not be misconstrued as unnatural. "The two of us? Are we going to reminisce?"

"If you like."

He really, really, really did not understand what was happening here. He couldn't tell if his underlying excitement was over Peter, or the opportunity to get out of his flat and live a a little, perhaps meet some new people. Or re-meet some of the old ones. Was 're-meet' even a word? He had a sneaking suspicion the answer was a rather resounding 'no'. He had never been out with a man who suggested what Peter was suggesting. His experiences had all been back alley, motorway lay-by affairs, fumbles in the back seats of taxis. But this was Peter. And Peter was halfway drunk, too. He looked, in fact, down right terrified, his eyes wide, his posture stooped, practically screaming _don't hurt me!_. Peter…Peter looked how Lachlan felt. Which somehow made it brilliant. "Alright. I've never had Indian food before."

"Have you not? You'll love it, I promise," said Peter, breaking out into a broad, relieved smile.

"I hope so. If not, I'll just have to take you out to my favorite restaurant instead," Even as he said it, Lachlan realized he was suggesting…something. He hoped he was not overstepping his place. It was obvious he and Peter moved in very different circles, and he had few friends he would invite over to his own flat. Only Jenny and Mark had been there, and he had hustled them out as soon as possible. If Peter were to see it - no. There was a burst of laughter on the other side of the door, and then one person shouted for Peter and was soon joined by others to form a very loud, very boisterous chorus. Abruptly aware of hogging Peter's time, Lachlan said, "We should rejoin the others."

"I'm sure the neighbors are on the verge of calling the police," Peter answered, pushing off the wall. He opened the door, ushered Lachlan out. He raised his voice to be heard over the noise. "Is Thursday good? Only my next free night is Sunday - "

Lachlan nodded. "It's fine."

"Good!" Peter said, turning away from Lachlan as he was jerked away by an unknown person. "Anya, please!" Off balance, he lurched away, looking back at Lachlan. "Are you leaving? If you leave take the bottle, and call me!"

"I'm not leaving!" he called. For one, he was now too drunk to get home, and second, he wanted to see if Peter would do anything else, because that slight touch on Lachlan's shoulder as he had left the bedroom - he shivered at the memory. Peter had never touched him beyond the odd handshake, not even a friendly pat on the back. God, he should really sit before he fell. There was an empty bit of floor in the hallway, so he slowly slid down the wall until his arse was on wood. He felt like he was on the verge of something. He imagined it must be what women felt like when they discovered they were pregnant, but unwed. No matter what they did, the choice was life-changing. For whatever reason, he was in a similar position - he could sense it.

"He's a nice bloke, ain't he?"

Lachlan opened his eyes to find the redhead sitting next to him on the floor. She was slit-eyed, her head loose on her shoulders. 

Swaying towards him, she bumped elbows quite deliberately. "He likes you," she enunciated very carefully. "I can tell."

"We're old mates, from university," he answered, because it was true. Nice to hear she thought Peter liked him, the feeling was certainly mutual.

"I'll tell him you said that."

"Ss-sorry?"

"What you said. I'll tell 'im."

"Okay yeah, no, don't do that."

"'S'okay! We're friends too, I'm'n, not in _that_ way, but friends," she said, bumping him again.

He nodded enthusiastically. "That's good, that's really good, friends are the best. I don't have many friends."

"I'll be your friend!" She grabbed his arm and put her head on his shoulder, snuggled closer. "Friends, yeah?"

Lachlan nodded again, because it was very nice having someone on his arm. Closing his eyes and relaxing, he said, "Yeah. Friends _are_ the best."

For a while he stayed on the floor, smiling at everyone who passed. He liked Peter's flat, and Peter's friends. He had liked Peter's friends at Cambridge, too, the ones they had shared. After more time had passed, and the cigarette smoke was making his eyes water, he retreated back into Peter's bedroom. Oh right, he had forgotten there were no chairs. But now there was a space on the bed where the early leavers had gathered their coats and jackets and purses, just enough room for him to lay down and rest for a minute or two.

"Lachlan. Lachlan. I guess you're not awake."

"Mmm?" Lachlan blearily opened his eyes to near darkness. Distant lamplight came in through an open doorway - what? He shook his head a little to clear it, succeeded only in making himself feel like his brain was sloshing around his skull. No wonder the Egyptians pulled it out with a removal scoop stick. "What - ? Peter?"

"Yup. Just me."

The voice came from Lachlan's left. He slowly rolled his head in that direction and yes, Peter Guillam was lying on the bed next to him, legs atop the remaining coats, shoeless and casually crossed at the ankle.

"Sorry," Lachlan said, unable to even contemplate moving and quite aware of how impolite he was being. At the same time, he didn't much care. "Didn't mean to fall asleep."

Peter rolled onto his side to look back at him. He seemed a little more rumpled than before, his smart jacket somewhere else, his beautifully cut pink Oxford creased at the neck and underarm. "That's alright."

In the poor light Lachlan could barely make out the glint of Peter's eye, the cut of his cheekbone, the delicate curve of his ear. He was tempted to reach out and caress Peter's cheek, run his fingers across the perfect bow of his lips.

"Are you still coming to dinner with me?" Peter asked quietly.

"Of course," answered Lachlan. He frowned. "Of course I am. How could I miss it?"

"I thought you had left, earlier. I thought maybe you didn't know how to tell me you didn't want to go."

"Peter," Lachlan flailed for Peter's hand. Catching a hold of it, he squeezed it and said, "You must not have heard me, earlier."

"I'm glad you stayed."

"Me too."

They lay in silence for another minute or so, listened to the faint sounds of people talking in the lounge. Eventually Lachlan roused and slwoly sat up. Yes, he was still fairly drunk, but not as bad as before. Glancing back at Peter, he was surprised to find him sound asleep. Lachlan grimaced, shook his head. They were still holding hands. Carefully releasing Peter, he stood and made his way to the toilet, had a wee, washed and dried his hands. He didn't bother looking in the mirror, he already knew what he looked like when he was drunk. Hardly James Bond. After patting his pockets to make sure he still had his keys, he peered into Peter's bedroom and yes, the man was still down and out for the count. Much as he wanted to linger, he had to go. He wavered, torn between waking Peter or just leaving. Wouldn't be fair, though. What if Peter didn't remember that Lachlan had agreed? What if Peter didn't remember Lachlan taking his hand? 

No. No, he wasn't going to do this to himself again. Peter had searched him out and invited him to his party and dinner and it was going to be fine, it was all going to be fine. That's what Mum always said, and wasn't she right? Hadn't he left Glasgow when it had all become to much for him there? Hadn't he graduated from Cambridge? In this world anything was possible, anything, even Peter Guillam.

Lachlan nodded to himself. 

Peter Guillam, hmm, _yes_.


End file.
